


Comes the Darkness

by Tenebrielle



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Missing Scene, Spoilers, athos on a bender, mention of dark themes, spoilers for episode 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-15 21:24:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1319746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tenebrielle/pseuds/Tenebrielle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos never knows exactly what will precipitate one of his spirals into darkness: the scent of perfume, a flower in the marketplace, a glint of sunlight on a dark curl, but he always knows how they will end.  Set after episode 7.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Day

The first day is for mourning.

Rain drips down onto his bare head while Ninon de Larroque takes her leave. He has felt the sinuous darkness menacing the periphery of his consciousness since the sham of her trial, the shock of witnessing the demon he married step forward and pour poison into the Cardinal’s ears. The fleeting brightness of saving Ninon’s life had been the only force keeping it at bay, and it leaves with her. He sighs. Athos admires her, surely, for her wit and grace and her indomitable courage, but why did his heart tear itself so over a woman he hardly knows?

It has many times before, though. He had barely known _her_ either, as it were.

Athos returns to the monastery with only the rain for company. His leathers are increasingly damp and his boots are sodden; the road a muddy mess, but he saddles his horse and flees like a coward before the other musketeers can catch him up. The chill in his soul at the prospect of their questions drives him into the first inn he finds (a stupid error; surely Porthos or Aramis will think to look for him there). The rain provides an excuse to sit near the fire, and a coin from his purse provides the wine. He runs the tip of his thumb along the surface of his humble clay cup, studying it with expert eye. He knows, nearly to the ounce, how much wine will blur the memory of her sharp wit or dull the gold of her hair to a tolerable prickle.

It is far too much for any gentleman to drink in a reputable establishment, but more importantly, too much for Athos to be able to keep his seat on his horse afterwards. He knows that limit all too well. The darkness pooling in the back of his mind whispers that the prospect of breaking his neck in a drunken fall from his horse is not all together unpleasant, ignoble though it may be. He kills the dregs of the bottle instead. Another coin produces a skin of wine for the road, and he takes his leave of the inn.

He is gratified to find that the rain passed over Paris and the streets are mercifully dry. Athos has already resigned himself to the fact that he is likely to sleep in the gutter that night, if he sleeps at all. At least it will be a dry gutter. He does not bother to change his muddy clothes before heading out into the city, but he leaves his blue cloak and _fleur-de-lis_ spaulder behind. His actions need not bring open shame upon his brothers-in-arms.

The tavern owner crosses himself when Athos crosses the threshold, even as he hastens away to fetch him a bottle of good wine. He has good reason to do so; Athos only frequents this particular tavern at his most desperate, and without Porthos or Aramis to temper his behavior. But unlike the other patrons of the tavern, he _always_ pays his bill, and for this, the owner tolerates him.

The first bottle goes down quickly, too quickly for the quality of the vintage, but he can feel the darkness sucking him down and he cannot hold out much longer. He forces himself to take his time with the second bottle; he has not eaten today and the room has already begun to wobble a little. Athos lets his unsteady head slump into his hands. The hard wood bites into his elbows as he presses his palms to his eyes. The Comtesse de Larroque smirks at him from behind his eyelids and in the single moment of hesitation before he can seize the bottle and drink until she disappears, Athos constructs a whole lifetime of fantasy.

The Cardinal has taken her fortune and her holdings and her titles, but he is the Comte de la Fere, and he has a fortune and holdings and a title. He has the favor of the king. His house might not be so grand, nor his library so extensive, but he would give it all to her without hesitation or expectation. He sees the house again, not sad and empty, but bright and filled with life. She is there, walking the corridors with him, the discouraged (not defeated; she will _never_ be defeated) grief in her eyes replaced by happiness. He is happy too, content. A door opens and he looks up, smiling, because it is his brother back from the-

But, no, the darkness whispers. Thomas is dead.

Athos the Musketeer twists his fingers mercilessly into his hair to stop himself making a noise as the shining dream shatters. A lump swells into his throat and an empty bottle clinks to the floor beside him. What little of it had ever existed, could ever exist, is long gone. Thomas is dead these past five years; the house is a shell burnt hollow. The Comtesse de Larroque, _Ninon_ , would have never accepted him. But nor, coward that he was, would he have offered.

Athos is burnt hollow too; hollow of all but wine and grief. Dully, he realizes his cheek is pressed to the wood of the table, while he mourned the life he once had and the life that would never be. When he finally managed to raise his spinning head, he notices a fresh bottle on the table before him. He seizes it violently and lets the darkness consume him.


	2. The Second Day

The second day is for rage.

Brilliant sunlight pierces the darkness behind his closed eyelids and Athos groans. The ground is hard and cold beneath him.   He knows not where he is, or how he came to be there. It feels like stone beneath his hands, not dirt or wood, but this is little clue. He pushes himself upward onto his knees on principle, but his head spins with residual intoxication and he slumps to the ground. His head lolls limply onto his arm, and he sinks back into a half-dream.

Athos is falling again, falling through his memory, through sun-dappled shadow onto soft silk. Equally soft warmth reaches his cheek through the fabric, and when he breathes he inhales the scent of soap and clean skin and lavender left from the clothes press. He shifts a little and the aroma of lavender mingles with that of grass and sun-warmed soil. Slender fingers run delicately through his hair and he lets out a little contented sigh.

Ninon de Larroque smiles at him when he opens his eyes, haloed by sunlight. His head is pillowed in her lap. He smiles at her sleepily. For a moment he feels so safe and warm and _loved_ that he forgets everything else beyond her. A little blue flower falls from her hair to land on his face, and she laughs as she brushes it out of his beard. He reaches up to take her hand, but Ninon is no longer Ninon.

His wife looks down at him now, her lips pressed into a cruel smile. His wife the temptress, his wife the liar, his wife the murderess!

Athos cries out with horror as her green eyes narrow in rage and her fingers become vices in his hair. Golden sunlight becomes flame, the flames of his old life, the flames of hellfire, as she holds him close and presses a sharp slender blade to his throat. There is a part of him that thrills to her touch, warring with the part of him willing her to cut his throat, but his brother’s blood cries out for vengeance and he struggles in her grasp. Some demonic strength has possessed her and he cannot get away.

He shouts again, but this time the sound is not in his dream; he can hear it echoing back at him off stone. Something that feels like a broom hits Athos the Musketeer and he drags himself to his feet, reeling with drink and despair. He still does not know where he is, nor does he care. Angry shouts chase him out into the street. His wife’s smirk sears into his back.

Hatred swells through him while he stalks through cobbled streets in search of wine, poisoning his thoughts, his blood, even the pleasant dream of love and sunlight. It is all _her_ doing. She entrapped him, she lied to him, she murdered his brother in cold blood. She even managed to take Ninon and everything she might have been away from him.  He _hates_ her, hates what she had done, and hates what she has made him do.

Yet the memory of her fine green eyes still makes his heart pound and even now, after five years and all her crimes, he still sometimes wakes longing for her touch. She has always had this spell over him, like she did with all men. Even after he sentenced her to die he could refuse her nothing; not her white gown nor her little nosegay of forget-me-nots, as though she was bound for her wedding day rather than her execution.

Another tavern, another table, another bottle, _ad infinitum_.   The locket weighs down upon his neck like a millstone but Athos cannot bring himself to throw it away. He has not the strength. He grips his bottle so hard his knuckles go white, cup and any last shreds of his dignity long forgotten while he tries to drown the memory of her so-called love. The day is lost in long stretches of wine- induced darkness punctuated by short staccato bursts of awareness that slowly become blacker and blacker with pent-up rage.

The sun is setting blood-red in the western sky when Athos next comes to himself, swaggering brazenly into a tavern he knows will be filled with Red Guards. He wants to fight, _needs_ to fight, needs to release some of this accursed rage within him before it claws through his chest. He takes a table and calls for wine, glowering blearily, daring them to approach.

It will not be a long wait. Many of the veteran Guards recognize him even without his _fleur-de-lis_ and know well not to rise to his bait, not in his current temper. But there is always a man hoping to impress his peers by killing a Musketeer, or raw recruits drunk and stupid enough to challenge him. Athos is counting on them.

There is a table full of younger guards, just a bit older than d’Artagnan but with much less sense, nearby. He waits, nursing his wine while they work up their courage. After several bottles, they decide that Athos’ mere presence is insult enough to Red Guard to challenge him. He readily accepts, though the wine has now cost him the feeling in his fingertips, and follows them outside. They set upon him four to one.

Athos salutes them mockingly as he drops into his _en garde_. They like their odds, four against one. He likes them too. In this miserable part of Paris, no one will interfere if he is in over his head. Maybe, the darkness whispers, maybe this time they will manage to kill him.

It is not to be. He is less than steady on his feet, but his blood is up and his blade does not waver. Athos beats them back one after another with flat and pommel, guard and fist, with none of the fine bladework that is his pride and with every brutish trick Porthos has ever taught him. He does not kill any of them; he never does, but he beats the first to draw steel within an inch of his life. The three remaining Red Guards flee, dragging their injured friend, bleeding and cursing this mad Musketeer.

“Come back and finish the job, damn you!” Athos roars after them, though he staggers with drink and exhaustion. “Are you men or dogs? Cowards! Come back and fight!”

“Athos?” a familiar voice asks incredulously from behind. For an instant, his hot blood runs cold and fear clenches in his stomach. It sounds like Aramis. It cannot be; _Aramis_ cannot see him like _this_ , he _cannot he must not_ -

He whirls around. The sudden motion is too much for his wine-saturated head, and the world tilts crazily to one side. His sword slips out of his hand. His knees buckle, forcing him to grab at the alley wall to keep from falling to the cobbles. Athos still slides halfway down before he manages to catch himself. Someone’s hands are clutching his coat, helping prop him upright. He flinches away from the touch and opens his eyes.

Aramis stares back at him, his dark eyes wide with shock and horror as he peers into Athos’ face. “My God, Athos,” he breathes. He looks Athos up and down as if to check him for injury; glances over his shoulder at the fleeing Red Guards. “What- Why- My God, what are you _doing_ in this place?”

He should not speak, lest Aramis accidentally learn the truth, but the wine has stolen his resolve and the words tear themselves from his breast. “I am judged, Aramis!” Athos cries. A bubble of hysterical laughter rises to his lips and he wrenches his jacket from Aramis’ fingers. “I am judged as I have judged!”

Aramis’ face crinkles with worry. He reaches towards a cut on Athos’ cheek (Athos can feel blood trickling down even if there is no pain) but Athos shies away. “Athos,” Aramis says softly, looking him in the eye. It is the same tone he uses to gentle a startled horse. “My friend, you are not yourself.”

He moves to place his hands on Athos’ shoulders. Athos’ blood still screams for violence and he can only see the potential threat. Before he is quite aware of his actions, he has Aramis by the neck. He jams his left forearm under Aramis’ chin while his right hand draws his dagger from the small of his back and presses it to his friend’s exposed throat. Aramis raises his hands slowly in surrender.

A wave of dizziness caused by the sudden movement sweeps over him and Athos stumbles. The dagger edge catches in Aramis’ skin before Athos can steady himself, and a few drops of blood trickle down his neck. Aramis’ face goes very white but he does not move. “Your God has judged me, Aramis,” Athos explains, suddenly desperate for someone to understand. “And He has found me wanting!”

“Athos, listen to me,” Aramis pleads. His throat bobs nervously under Athos’ blade, but his voice is even. “You are unwell. Let me help.”

Athos almost laughs again madly. Aramis is right; he is not well. He is sick with hate and drink and darkness. But he stops when he sees there is fear in Aramis’ eyes, real fear. There is trust too, and Athos sees Aramis’ fear is not for himself.  Suddenly, he realizes this is _Aramis_ , his friend, _his brother_ , that he is holding here at the point of a knife. With a choked cry, Athos releases him. Aramis stumbles away, holding his hand to the cut on his neck. The naked fear and confusion on his face sear deep into Athos’ very soul.  

“He has judged me for my sins and I am in Hell!” Athos cries wildly after him. Somehow he crouches to retrieve his fallen sword without collapsing and staggers to his feet. He must get away from Aramis before he drags him down into the darkness. “There is no help for me!”


	3. The Third Day, part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got a lot longer than I anticipated I've split it in two. This is part 1, part 2 will follow soon! :)

* * *

 

The numbness sets in on the third day.

Slowly, very slowly, Athos wakes into a dim, quiet emptiness. The torrent of rage and sorrow has at last run dry, wringing out every last thought, draining every last emotion from his soul. He might weep with relief, if he could bring himself to feel anything at all.

At first, he doesn’t move, doesn’t even open his eyes, for fear of disturbing the spell. He is drifting somewhere on the edge between intoxication and sobriety. Too much movement in either direction will shatter the hard-won numbness and render his earlier torment irrelevant. The goal now is to consume just enough wine to stay on that edge for as long as he can until his body rebels. With luck, there is perhaps another day before the physical misery sets in. He needs that blessed day of numbness, that day of nothing, to face the coming weeks.

Athos feels his eyes move a little under their lids. Wherever he is, he is lying on something soft and warm. No one has shouted at him yet, which he takes as a good omen. He can sense daylight, but he is not outdoors. He shifts a little and gradually becomes aware of the weight of a blanket covering his body. It feels rather like he is in his own bed. That would be an unexpected surprise.

Carefully, oh so carefully, he reaches down for where a bottle should be on the floor. He gropes for a moment but finds nothing. There is just the barest twitch of irritation under the numbness. Athos opens his eyes.

It takes him a moment to recognize the ceiling. He _is_ at home, in his own bed. He can’t bring himself to question how he got there. Gingerly, Athos pushes himself up on one elbow so he can reach farther and search the floor below the bed more carefully. His head twinges warningly and he winces a little. There should be _something_ down there, even empty-

“We tidied up for you,” says a familiar voice.

A low chuckle, belonging to a second voice, rumbles around the room. “Looked like one of Madame Angel’s parties had been here.”

Athos freezes. He blinks once, twice, cringing as the sunlight from the cracks in the shutters pierces his sensitive eyes. His heart sinks. He is not alone.

Aramis is sitting in the single chair, his boots up on the table and his hat resting in his lap. Porthos leans against the wall near the doorway with his arms folded across his chest. Athos looks between them with narrowed eyes. There is a single bottle of wine on the table beside Aramis’ boots. He studies it calculatingly. It won’t be enough, not nearly enough, but it will be a start. He is too numb to be ashamed of the thought.

Regardless, all will be lost if he doesn’t get rid of them soon.   Athos licks dry lips with a drier tongue.   “Get out,” he orders hoarsely.

Porthos and Aramis look at each other and shrug, clearly unconcerned by his displeasure. “Have you any idea of the time?” Aramis asks rhetorically.

“Or the day?” Porthos adds.

Athos slumps back onto his pillow and throws his arm over his face. The first throbs of a dull ache are beginning to pound behind his eyes, and cracks are beginning to appear in the precious numbness. If he doesn’t get a drink soon, they will spread and the illusion of peace will be gone.   Porthos’ boots creak heavily across the floor and a moment later the shutters have been flung wide open, flooding his room with fresh air and sunlight. Athos can’t help crying out in protest.

“You were supposed to be on duty this morning,” Porthos says reproachfully. Something that feels suspiciously like a boot impacts the leg of his bed, jostling it. His head spins and Athos bites his lip to keep from groaning aloud. It was remarkably unfair of Aramis to drag Porthos into this, though he cannot quite place _why_. “D’Artagnan’s covering for you.”

“And yesterday. And the day before that,” Aramis observes. He pauses for dramatic effect, and Athos can picture his vaguely amused expression. “We told Treville you were taken ill.”

“It’s no small thing to lie to a superior officer,” Porthos says. Athos cannot help rising to the bait.

“I did not ask you to lie for me!” he snaps at them. Tired frustration is seeping through the numbness.   He forces himself to sit up, wincing and cursing inwardly as his sore muscles protest being driven upright. He holds a hand up to shade his eyes from the agonizingly bright sunlight.

“You’d think he wants a court-martial,” Porthos remarks to Aramis.

“Well, that’s one way to leave the service.”

Something sour gurgles warningly in Athos’ stomach and he scowls. He is going to be sick in earnest if he does not get some of that wine. He has long since accepted the physical price of his dark periods, the subsequent days of misery as his wine-poisoned body purges itself. The coming suffering will provide oblivion of sorts, but he isn’t quite ready to face that agony so soon after the other. “Come to the point,” he growls at them. “Or leave me be.”

Aramis curls one end of his moustache thoughtfully. “You see, Athos, one day might have gone overlooked. Perhaps you needed a day to mourn the loss of the fair Comtesse de Larroque?”

How very like Aramis to assume everything was about a woman. He hits much closer to the mark than Athos likes, though, even if he has the details wrong. Athos will not speak of it, not to Porthos, not to Aramis, not to anyone. He glowers murderously at Aramis, who merely exchanges a knowing glance with Porthos. They both smirk.

“I see. Completely understandable. But three days…three days, my friend, is excessive.”

“Three days made us wonder,” Porthos rumbles. “And once we started hearing rumors of a Musketeer run mad, well...you didn’t know her that well, did you?”

Athos stiffens and looks up sharply, ignoring the stab of pain through his head. His memories of the previous night are fragmental at best, blurred by wine and darkened by rage, but _mad_ does not seem to be very far off. He can feel the blood draining from his face.   If whatever he had done had brought open shame upon the unit, if he had been recognized by someone who mattered, his commission could be at stake. God knows it is all he has left.

“It was only a rumor, of course,” Aramis hastily reassures him. “Everyone knows Red Guards are such…unreliable witnesses.”

Porthos grunts. “They’ll say anything to make us look bad, they will.”

“Regardless,” Aramis continues, “Accustomed as we are to your usual drinking habits, imagine my surprise finding _you_ were the mad Musketeer.”

Athos has a sudden confused vision of blades and bellowing after men in red sleeves; of Aramis’ horror and the tear of his own flesh against a plaster wall. His face grows warm as he slumps to cradle his head in his hands. Tender skin pulls on his cheek and he runs his thumb along a cut he does not remember receiving.

“After last night,” Porthos says, his leathers creaking as he shifts to hook his thumbs in his belt, “We got to thinking. You’ve done this before.”

“There was that time in Lille a year or two back,” Aramis observes, idly stroking one of the feathers on his hat. “You disappeared for a few days; caught us up on the road.”

“I’ve never seen a man go so white at a field of flowers,” adds Porthos.

Athos studies his scraped knuckles. They were not really trying if that was the only occasion they could come up with. Lille itself was nothing but a drunken blur, but he vividly remembers the sick, twisting shock of recognition at the sight of the little blue flowers. “Forget-me-nots,” he corrects Porthos dully, without thinking. He runs his hands miserably through his tousled hair. “They were forget-me-nots.”

Porthos and Aramis look to him in unison, like hounds on a scent. Athos curses himself for saying too much, but there is naught he can do about it now. He grits his teeth and stubbornly refuses to elaborate through their expectant silence. After a moment, Aramis huffs a little and Porthos shrugs.

“You’ve not been yourself since La Fere,” Porthos continues, taking a different tack. “Don’t think we haven’t noticed.”

The name sends a chill down Athos’ spine. D’Artagnan had found him there in the flames of his family home; half-mad with shock and drink and raving about his wife. He had almost, almost convinced himself that the foggy memories of that night had been a nightmare, that the cold touch of her blade against his throat and the warmth of her embrace had been nothing but a drunken hallucination, until she had walked out and spoke before God and the Cardinal at Ninon’s trial. What had the boy told them?

“You disappeared after that, too,” Aramis says. “Though only for a night.”

“I thought d’Artagnan was with him,” Porthos points out, frowning a little.

“He was,” Aramis confirms. “He went-“

Athos can feel the snare tightening around him. They know. They have to know. He will _kill_ d’Artagnan for breaking his trust. He squeezes his temples against the beastly pounding in his skull with a shaking hand. “What did that damn boy tell you?” he snarls before Aramis can finish his statement.

Porthos and Aramis exchange looks, as if surprised by his sudden temper.

“D’Artagnan has not told us anything,” Aramis tells him gently, but a shrewd light has come into his eyes. Athos feels his shoulders slump in defeat. He is a fool. All he has done was confirm for them that something occurred at La Fere. “This…wasn’t about Ninon, was it?”

Athos does not respond. The hard-won numbness is slipping through his fingers like sand, only to be replaced by the faint tendrils of darkness he had been trying to forget. He is desperate to stave them off. Dread is beginning to seep into his stomach to mingle with the sour bile of too much drink. The chain of her locket has twisted around his fingers again. He grips it tightly. He will not tell them; he will _not._ He will not endure their judgment, too.

“That woman, Athos,” Porthos prompts. He has scented blood now, they both have, Athos notes with dismay. He nudges a stool out from under the table with the toe of his boot and takes a seat. “At the trial. Who is she to you?”

His question is the last straw. Athos finally loses his temper. They have already stolen his day of quiet, that single day of _nothing_ he pays such a stiff price to obtain; they will not have his secrets too.

“Get out!” Athos shouts at them, leaping to his feet. His limbs tremble like water under his weight but his anger keeps him upright. He is suffocating, drowning in hot shame but damned if he will let them see any more of his weakness. “My secrets are mine, and mine alone! Now leave me be.”

Aramis’ face hardens and his boots drop to the floor with a loud _thump_. The fresh cut on his throat stands out like an accusation. He has another flash of memory, of Aramis’ wide eyes and blood trickling from the edge of his dagger, and Athos swallows hard against a sudden stab of guilt. “Last night, you made them Musketeer business,” Aramis says sharply, leaning forward and stabbing a finger at him for emphasis. “It’s either us, or Treville.”

Something hot burns behind Athos’ eyes at the threat and he reaches for his sword, even though he can hardly keep to his feet. But it is not on its pegs on the wall. He whirls around, gritting his teeth against the wave of dizziness that follows. Porthos shifts a little to one side, and Athos sees his rapier leaning against the table, well out of reach behind Porthos’ back. His hands clench into frustrated fists.

“Athos,” Porthos drawls reasonably, shooting a warning look at Aramis. He leans back, blocking Athos’ view of his sword. “We’re your friends.”

Aramis leans back in his seat with forced casualness. He uncorks the wine and sniffs with exaggerated delicacy, using the gesture to regain his composure. Athos hates how his eyes are suddenly riveted to the bottle. “You’re not leaving this chamber until you tell us what troubles you,” Aramis tells Athos with a small smile, his brief spell of temper passed.

Out of sheer, ungentlemanly spite, Athos looks to the window. For a moment, he considers chancing it, but Porthos catches his eye and twitches his eyebrows meaningfully. Athos glances down and realizes he is stripped to his linen, barefoot, in no condition to flee unless he wishes to cement his reputation as the mad musketeer. A quick glance around finds his leathers across the room, folded neatly on top of his wooden chest. His boots are lined up below. Porthos’ doing, judging by his smirk, though Aramis undoubtedly had a hand in it.

Athos scowls. Near-naked, weaponless, and barefoot. They’ve trapped him, and trapped him well.

Suddenly, he is tired of fighting. Athos sags back to his seat on the bed and leans against the wall. The plaster is hard and cool against his aching head. It feels good against the little raw place at the nape of his neck, where the chain of the locket chafed his skin.

Aramis notices the change in his demeanor and tilts the bottle a little. Athos looks up at the gurgle of liquid.   “A little hair of the dog to ease things along?” Aramis asks with a little encouraging smile. Athos would hit him, if he could only summon the volition to move.

Porthos guffaws. “He needs the whole dog, more like.”

Athos shoots him a withering look, eliciting a chuckle from Aramis. He is not so far gone that the idea of wine is revolting, yet, nor is he too proud to delay the wine-sickness by drinking a little more. He accepts the cup wordlessly and drains it in one go, ignoring Porthos’ disapproving grunt. The pounding in his head starts to fade almost immediately. He rubs his free hand blearily across his face.

When he looks up, Porthos and Aramis are watching him expectantly. Their open, earnest faces, gone serious with concern, make his heart twist painfully. _She_ has already poisoned everything good in his life; was she now to poison them, to turn them against him, as well?

But he cannot run from them any longer. He sighs a little with defeat. “You were right,” Athos admits slowly. His tongue is reluctant; he has to force the words out, but his voice is steady. “The…woman at the trial. I knew her. She is not Madame de la Chappelle.”

Porthos looks to Aramis, who is frowning slightly. “Then who is she?”

Athos’ heart pounds horribly against his ribs. He forces himself to breathe deeply. “She was once the Comtesse de la Fere,” he says tonelessly, putting every last ounce of control he can muster into keeping his voice steady. “My wife.”

 


	4. The Third Day, part 2

* * *

_“She was once the Comtesse de la Fere,” he says tonelessly, putting every last ounce of control he can muster into keeping his voice steady. “My wife.”_

Porthos and Aramis look at each other in surprise. Athos cannot bring himself to meet their eyes. Aramis has set the bottle at his right hand, well out of Athos’ reach unless he stands. Somehow a shade of numbness has returned and Athos cannot bring himself to try.

“I thought your wife was dead,” Aramis says cautiously. He tips more wine into Athos’ cup unbidden and pours some for himself and Porthos.

“As did I,” Athos replies. “These past five years. I thought she was dead.” He stares blankly into his cup. His reflection stares back at him, dark and distorted in the tangy red liquid. “I thought she was dead,” he repeats, voice almost a whisper. Somewhere, a rope creaks and a branch groans under a heavy load-

A hand brushes his knee and startles Athos back to himself. Porthos’ eyes crinkle with concern. “Sounds like you should start at the beginning,” he says, and his deep voice is surprisingly gentle.

Athos takes a shuddering breath. His head hangs in shame, and he cannot bring himself to raise it. “I never thought I would marry,” he starts slowly. “I was expected to, of course. But when our father died and I came into my inheritance, I was yet unmarried. I have never had your ease with words, Aramis, nor your charm. The game of courtship did not come easily to me. My brother, Thomas,” he pauses, smiling a little painfully at the memory, “Used to tease that I would die an old maid. I had been presented with many suitable matches and rejected them all. Too young, too interested in my money, or my title. Or my more handsome, more charming little brother.”

He swirls his wine in his cup a few times and looks up. “In truth, I found the whole business distasteful,” he says, a little wryly. Aramis grins outright at that, and Athos really cannot blame him. “The scheming and the bargaining that go into a noblemarriage. It all seemed so…base. I was head of the family, and as there was no one to force the issue, I was content to remain a bachelor.”

Porthos chuckles. “Until you met her?”

The corner of Athos’ mouth twitches upward, tugging the tender skin around the cut on his cheek. “Until I met her,” he confirms. “I knew she was not of noble birth, but she was beautiful, and so very sad. I was curious; drawn to her in a way I could not explain.” He struggles, his words failing as he tries to express that magnetic, utterly inescapable _pull_ he had felt towards her. But Aramis and Porthos exchange knowing smiles, and to his relief, he realizes they understand. “Thomas laughed that I was a romantic, that she was out of my sphere and I out of hers, but it did not stop me speaking to her. Would that I had listened to him.”

It had been her fine green eyes, sad and lovely, that first drew his interest, but it was her wit that kept it. Athos had been caught completely off-guard by her words, which were as sharp as any rapier when her temper was aroused. The difference between her and the demure girls of the village was almost intoxicating.

“She called herself Anne de Breuil. Her father was a successful merchant, but he had since ruined the family through speculation. She was living on the charity of her brother, who was a village priest outside Marseilles.” Athos pauses to take a swallow of wine, although his physical discomfort is rapidly being forgotten as he is drawn into his tale. A smirk plays at the corner of Aramis’ mouth; always the romantic, he has guessed where Athos’ tale leads, even if he has not guessed how it ends. “At least, that was what she told me.”

“I had never met a woman quite so charming or so clever. Anne was the antithesis of the girls who had been paraded before me by their fathers. She always spoke her mind. She was proud, too, prouder than I, if you can believe it,” Athos says, smiling inwardly at a half-memory of her haughty frown and her fan tapping martially in her hand at some ill-mannered remark. The residual fondness is both sweet and a stab of ice into his heart. “Before long, I was infatuated. She was exquisite and fascinating, and as wholly devoted to me as I was to her. Thomas cautioned me again, but I refused to listen. I was determined to marry her despite the scandal, to raise her out of her poverty and for us to begin a new life together.” He takes another swallow of wine and shrugs a little. “So I did.”

“You married for love,” Aramis says with surprise and a touch of new respect.

“Didn’t see that coming,” Porthos teases gently. He and Aramis look at each other and chuckle, and to Athos’ surprise, a little tension bleeds out of his stomach. He manages to find a wan imitation of a smile.

“Of course, it was a tremendous scandal,” Athos continues. He runs his thumb over the surface of her locket, remembering that long first year of stony disapproval and rescinded invitations. The social isolation had not particularly bothered him, but it had been hard on garrulous Thomas. “My brother never forgave me. I hoped he would come around with time, but he never warmed to her. For her part, she treated him with grace and dignity. She was soon not only a comtesse in name, but in bearing. For a few years, we were happy.” He smiles at them a little shyly. “She was…worth the scandal.”

“What happened to her?” Aramis asks curiously.

Athos’ smile fades. He cannot avoid it, not now, not any longer. His insides writhe with shame and hatred, most of it for himself. His knuckles go white on his cup. He has been dreading this moment since he first let Porthos and Aramis into his life. Surely, it would be the moment they left it. “She died,” he says slowly. “By my orders, if not directly by my hand.”

The smile slides from Aramis’ lips. Porthos lets out an incredulous growl.

“ _What?_ ” Aramis snaps and Athos cringes at the disgust in his voice. “By your _what?_ ”

What is left of his resolve shatters at his friend’s horror. He is not proud, cool, aloof Athos, or even Athos numbed by wine into aloofness. He is the desperate penitent Athos who begged on his knees for the life of Ninon de Larroque and begs for himself now.   “She was a criminal!” Athos pleads, looking between them frantically. They have to understand; he has to make them understand. He cannot bear for them to hate him, too. “It was _justice_. I swear, Aramis, it was justice!”

Chair legs scrape harshly against the floor as Aramis begins to rise, but Porthos throws out an arm to stop him. “ _Aramis_ ,” Porthos says sharply, before Aramis can protest. His expression is hard, frozen, inscrutable, but his voice is adamant.   “Let him finish.”

Aramis drops back into his seat with a huff of displeasure.  He slams his hat down on the table, making the cups and bottle rattle. Athos flinches. Aramis’ eyes have gone hard. “Indeed,” he says coldly, his lip curling a little with contempt. “Let us hear what crime was so foul that our friend saw fit to condemn his _wife_ to death. Adultery, perhaps?”

“Aramis!” Porthos interjects warningly, but Aramis ignores him.

“Was that it, then? She lay with another man and besmirched your precious honor? Or perhaps-“

His words stab at Athos like knives, shredding through his guilty soul and piercing deep into his heart. He deserves it; he deserves every ounce of scorn Aramis or any other man heaps upon him. The false accusation is too much, however. If he is to be scorned, let it be for the sins he actually committed.

“She murdered my brother!” Athos cries. Sudden tears sting his eyes, and his chest heaves with the effort to keep from breaking down. He will not, he will not allow himself to do so, not even in front of them. Still, his voice breaks. “The very last of my family! She killed him.”

At last, he has told them the naked truth. He stares boldly at them, panting, his hands balled into desperate fists. Aramis freezes; his eyes growing wide with horror. His throat works awkwardly but no words come out. Porthos’ stony expression softens and he looks uncomfortably at Aramis.

“Why?” Aramis asks, finally finding his voice. He sounds shaken. “In God’s name, _why?_ ”

“He discovered who she was,” Athos replies dully. The passion has gone out of him as quickly as it arose, leaving him slumped and bereft. He closes his eyes briefly against the tears he will not let fall. “I-I am not even certain her name was Anne.”

Porthos’ brow furrows with questions, and Aramis eyes Athos warily. The beginnings of compassion war with the disgust and horror plain on his face.

Athos drains the remainder of his wine and sets the cup aside with trembling fingers. It is all going to come out now, all of his secrets, and he has lost any will or desire to stop it. The guilty weight of the locket around his neck drags his face down into his hands. “One morning, Thomas rode up as I was leaving for Rouen on urgent business,” he begins, his voice devoid of any intonation. “He begged me to wait; he said he had information about Anne, how she was not who she said she was. He was insistent, but I did not listen. He had never liked her and I had no reason to suspect my wife. I told him that we would speak of it when I returned.”

The familiar old guilt wells thickly into his chest, squeezing the breath from his lungs. He has regretted that decision every day for five years. Somehow, Athos manages to lift his head but he cannot raise his eyes from the floor. “When I arrived home that night, the surgeon’s horse and the priest’s carriage were outside. The house was in an uproar.   My wife was weeping openly at the door, her dress covered with blood. She told me my brother was dead.”

The emptiness, the utter desolation, he had felt when he realized Thomas was gone is still so fresh it takes his breath away. Athos chokes to a halt. Porthos’ hand touches his knee again comfortingly. His sympathy pains Athos nearly as much as Aramis’ scorn.

Athos has to breathe deeply before he can continue. “From what I could gather from my wife, Thomas’ pistol had gone off while he was cleaning it and killed him instantly, before her eyes.” His voice cracks and he swallows hard. “There was nothing to do but bury him.”

“An unlucky accident,” Aramis murmurs, and there is a modicum of sympathy in his voice. Something scrapes on the table and he hears a soft gurgle of liquid as Porthos refills their cups with wine.

“It was no accident,” Athos says miserably. Porthos presses a full cup into his hand and he accepts it without thought. His grief is rapidly being replaced by anger. “Three days after my brother’s funeral, I caught Anne in his rooms without explanation. His papers were askew, and she was attempting to conceal something in her hand. It was a letter from priest in Paris. In it were detailed the crimes of the so-called Anne de Breuil: lying, theft, seduction, and murder.”

He hears Porthos growl a curse under his breath, and Aramis winces.

“Naturally, I confronted her. She admitted to killing Thomas, but she claimed it was to…defend her honor,” he tells them. Athos hears the creak of the chair as Aramis stiffens in his seat and he looks up at him desperately. “Later she told me it was to save _our_ love. I know not what passed between them, truly, I do not. The only thing I knew for certain was that she was a liar.”

He allows himself to drain his cup, trying to ground himself against the tendrils of darkness licking around his ankles. “She had lied about her past crimes, and somehow, Thomas had found out. His was not the first blood to stain her hands, and she had all but admitted to killing him to hide herself.” It all floods back, the sickening shock that accompanied her confession, the incandescent rage and agony he had felt when he realized the depth of her betrayal. Athos cannot bear it. His hands clench into fists and his voice rises to a near shout. “She who shed tears at his funeral, she who held me while I mourned, had murdered my brother in cold blood when he discovered what she was!”

“I had to act. A crime had been committed on my land, in my house. It was _my_ duty to uphold the law. I was the Comte; there was no one else.” Athos cries. “But the law called for her death. My _wife_ , the woman I loved more than life itself. How could I condemn her?”

Aramis makes a strangled noise, but Athos cannot let him interrupt, not now.

“My brother’s blood cried for vengeance and the law cried out for justice,” he chokes. “Over my own heart, in the name of the King, I had my wife taken from the house and hanged from the branch of a tree.”

Athos is _there_ again, bathed in hopeful sunlight and surrounded by the green of summer, signaling his ascent for his wife’s execution. Cart wheels turn. The branch groans and the rope creaks. He looks away, torn between deepest grief and that prickle of fierce pleasure in the darkest depths of his soul that his brother’s murder is avenged-

And he is back in his stuffy garret, shuddering with sudden nausea, his fingers wrapped white-knuckled around an empty cup. Aramis has one gloved hand pressed to his mouth, looking sick. Beside him, Porthos wears a pained expression.

“Now you know,” Athos says in a low voice. He feels drained; somehow empty now that his tale is told.  He stands to retrieve the bottle of wine from the table. It’s nearly empty, but he is beyond caring. Any wine is better than none.

“How?” Porthos demands, seizing Athos’ wrist and forcing it down to the table before he can lift the bottle. Athos scowls but he is powerless in Porthos’ grasp. “How’d she survive?”

“The hangman,” Athos tells him, the drained quality of his voice making him sound coldly matter-of-fact. “A man from the village. She seduced him.” His head droops again in shame and another pang of guilt, this time for poor murdered Remy, lances through his heart. “Coward that I am, I rode away before it was done. He cut her down when I was out of sight.” Porthos releases his wrist and Athos raises the bottle to his lips. The wine sours on his tongue. “She gambled that I could not bear to watch her die, and she won.”

Porthos looks at the floor. Athos can feel Aramis’ eyes boring into him, frozen in mute horror. Suddenly Athos is furious with him for gawking at his pain, for forcing him to face his secrets in the light and without the blur of wine. “Is my tale not romantic enough for you, Aramis?” he says cruelly as he lowers the bottle. “I married for love. Look what it brought me.”

Aramis’ mouth snaps shut and his face darkens angrily, clearly stung by Athos’s words. He scrambles to his feet and crams his hat on his head in a single violent motion. Porthos jumps up after him, ready to intervene if need be. “Be at the garrison tomorrow,” Aramis snarls, stabbing a finger at Athos. “I’m tired of lying for _you_.”

He turns on his heel and storms out, the door swinging on its hinges behind him. Athos slumps a little, already regretting his harsh words. He glances up at Porthos, but finds only well-deserved disapproval in his friend’s face.

“Do I not disgust you as well?” he asks bitterly.

The disapproval in Porthos’ eyes softens to sadness, and his expression becomes pensive. “I wondered why you’d give up all…that, for this,” he says, gesturing around the room, as if to contrast it with the faded splendor he’d seen at La Fere. “If I had to- well, you know. I get it now, is all.”

A lump swells into Athos’ throat and his eyes fall to his scraped knuckles. Porthos is nothing if not practical, but he had not expected understanding of any sort. He does not expect Aramis will be so forgiving.

Porthos studies him for a moment and sighs. “You know how Aramis is; sees things as he wants them to be, not as they are,” he says in a low voice, guessing Athos’ thoughts. “He’ll come ‘round.”

He thumps Athos on the shoulder and goes after Aramis. At last, Athos is alone. The thought is not comforting. He drags himself to his feet and crosses the room to bolt the door. Aramis’ sickened expression seems seared into his mind’s eye, to compliment the suffocating flood of memory he and Porthos dredged up. Without the need to hold himself together in front of them or the distracting pain of relating his past sorrows, he quickly becomes aware of the caustic churn of wine-sickness roiling in his stomach. Briefly, he considers searching for more wine to try to numb himself back into oblivion even though the thought alone makes bile rise in his throat, but the sour tang on his tongue and the sudden rush of water into his mouth tell him there is no use now. So much for his day of rest and quiet. Athos crumples to his knees and allows himself to be sick.

* * *

 

He has to pull the brim of his hat very low indeed to combat the piercing sun as he limps to the garrison on the morrow, his limbs trembling with hunger and his head pounding mercilessly with every step. All of Athos’ muscles ache after a night of violently emptying his stomach as his body exacted a fearsome vengeance for his abuse. He cannot recall the last time he ate, and the idea of food is at once attractive and unspeakably revolting.

Any other day, Athos would have stayed abed and risked Captain Treville’s displeasure. It is his cowardly fear of what Aramis might say or do that drives him out despite his misery. Aramis did not make idle threats, and when his blood was roused, he might say or do anything.

When he reaches the garrison, Athos is dismayed to find Aramis in his usual place atop one of the tables, cleaning his pistol. He had hoped to find Porthos first and use his influence to temper Aramis’ wrath. Aramis looks up at the click of Athos’ spurs against cobblestones and Athos freezes as their eyes meet. His expression is inscrutable. Athos swallows, his heart pounding nervously against his ribs.

“You’re looking better,” Aramis says loudly, his voice carrying throughout the courtyard. Heads turn at his voice. Athos can see Captain Treville looking down from his balcony out of the corner of his eye and he cringes inwardly at the attention. “I dare say the grippe is a most annoying ailment. All those days of misery.”

He lifts his eyebrows at Athos’ puzzled expression, the gesture hidden from their observers by his hat. Athos hastily fakes a coughing fit. His head feels as if it might split in two. “I agree,” he croaks, approaching the table and pouring a cup of water.

Treville retreats into his office, and Athos relaxes a little. His absence was noted, but Aramis’ excuse is better than he could have dared hope. No one would question his sickly pallor or his trembling limbs now; not after a bout of the grippe. Athos takes a seat on the bench near Aramis, aware that it will draw attention if avoids the other musketeer. He breaks off the end of a loaf of bread and chews cautiously. Mercifully, his stomach does not rebel.

Across the courtyard, Porthos and d’Artagnan are grappling. He idly watches d’Artagnan try to throw the much heavier Porthos into a pile of straw. Porthos’ booming laugh at his efforts echoes across stone. He straightens up and begins to explain something with several animated gestures while d’Artagnan listens intently, his arms akimbo. Athos cannot hear his instruction, but Porthos’ gestures allow him to get the gist of it.

He can feel Aramis’ eyes on him, and Athos glances at him a little warily. He has been dreading facing Porthos and Aramis since his confession, passionate Aramis in particular. How could they possibly see him in the same light now?

“How much does the boy know?” Aramis asks in an undertone. He selects a soft cloth from the table beside him and methodically pushes it down into the barrel of the pistol with a stick.

“Everything,” Athos murmurs through stiff lips.

“Treville?”

“The same.”

Diplomatically, Aramis does not mention how he and Porthos were apparently the last to hear Athos’ tale. “I’ve heard it said,” he says in the same hushed tone, “that God does not burden a man with more than he can carry.” He looks up at Athos from under his hat, his expression still unreadable. “And you carry a heavy load.”

His words are as indecipherable as his features, neither comfort nor condemnation. Athos looks away. His insides twist and he hastily puts aside his bread. For a moment, he wishes Aramis would just get on with it, shout at him, embrace him, do something, _anything_.

Aramis extracts the cloth from the barrel of his pistol and sets it aside.  He places the clean pistol neatly on top of it. “I would be remiss as a friend were I to add to it.”

Athos glances up in surprise. Aramis’ dark eyes look back at him, serious and a little sad, but without outright disgust or hatred. A little bud of hope rises in Athos’ chest.

“I cannot condone your actions,” Aramis continues, shrugging a little, “but neither can I imagine being in the position to have to take them. You did what you thought right.”

Shouts and laughter break out across the courtyard as d’Artagnan tires of his lesson and takes a flying leap at Porthos while his back is turned. Porthos absorbs the blow as if it is nothing and tips the boy head over heels into the straw, laughing all the while. Athos turns to watch them, suddenly unable to look at his other friend. Aramis does not hate him. His shoulders sag with relief, and wetness stings his eyes. He blinks furiously before anyone can see.

“What more can any of us do?” Aramis asks rhetorically, after a moment of silence. He lays a hand on Athos’ shoulder and squeezes gently.

Athos has to swallow hard against the swell of emotion in his throat. He reaches up to remove his hat with trembling fingers and runs his hand through his damp hair, ducking a little to hide his face. The darkness is still there, deep in his soul, and he knows it is only a matter of time before it emerges again. The shameful secret he carries is none the lighter for sharing it, but strangely, he feels almost free now that it is out in the open. He glances back across the courtyard at Porthos and d’Artagnan. The idea that he will no longer have to hide from them when his darkness returns is almost…liberating.

“Indeed,” Athos agrees, finally finding his voice. He runs his thumb over the surface of her locket. “What more can we do?”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! :) I hope you all enjoyed it. Many thanks to RedTigress, meskeet, and isilarma for their betaing!


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